


Start a War: Extras

by nymja



Series: Start a War [3]
Category: The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: 5 years later let's post them why not, F/M, odds and ends, short tumblr fills
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24838678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymja/pseuds/nymja
Summary: “And what is it that makes a monster?” The old woman whispered, poking at the hearth, “…Maybe it’s the same thing that stops one.”-Short stories from my fic Start a War, cross-posted from tumblr
Relationships: Nikolai Lantsov/Alina Starkov, The Darkling | Aleksander Morozova/Alina Starkov
Series: Start a War [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/147186
Comments: 8
Kudos: 122





	1. when a monster's not a monster

**Author's Note:**

> i was cleaning up my tumblr and found 3, short little fics that i never cross-posted. here they are :'D ?
> 
> ch1: alina/darkling, prompt: "when is a monster not a monster? when you love it"  
> ch2: alina/nikolai ft. zoya, prompt "jealous kiss"  
> ch3: alina/nikolai ft. the children, prompt "nikolina birthday"

—

_“And what is it that makes a monster?” The old woman whispered, poking at the hearth, “…Maybe it’s the same thing that stops one.”_

—

She finds him in the stables. Which is strange, even after all these years. Because she does not think of Aleksander as a man with hobbies—doesn’t think of him as someone who sets routines for himself or irons his shirts or loads sugar into his porridge. When she thinks of her husband ( _concubine,_ a snide voice snickers in her head, and it sounds too much like Nikolai or Mal or both), she, too, sees him as how he wants to be seen: in his black _kefta,_ over a war table, signing missives to send troops into Fjerdan territories. 

She does not always see him as he is now: sleeves rolled to the elbow, hands smoothing over the sable coats of his favorite horse, a hum coming from deep within his throat. Hay in his hair. 

For a moment, she just watches. His humming grows into a lullaby, though he does not remember any words for it. When the horse neighs or shifts, his long fingers smooth over its back and he pets it until it settles. 

Alina has been with him for over two hundred years, but she still doesn’t _know_ him. He still does not permit himself to be known. She wonders if that’s a blessing, to not understand the man who is her partner. It probably is. It makes things easier, clearer.

Aleksander’s back is still towards her, though she knows he must sense her nearby. It’s clear in how he tenses, just a moment, before continuing to brush the mare. Alina crosses her arms, and leans against a stable door. 

The hum dies in his throat. And she just might miss its sound. But how do you miss something half forgotten? 

“Surely you have more important matters to attend to,” he says, back still towards her, hand moving in even strokes and giving a comfortable rhythm to the space between them—the one that smells of hay and horse and feels like an ocean always demanding more to fill it.

She does. He ordered the execution of two of her advisers this morning. 

Alina takes a breath. Closes her eyes. 

_What is it that makes a monster?_

The horse nuzzles Aleksander’s shoulder with affection.

“Dubrov and Novokoff will be difficult to replace,” she mutters, breaking that space, deepening the sea between them.

Aleksander pets the nose of the horse, before turning. Under his eyes are purple crescents, mars that he does not have when she pictures him in her mind. 

“They were conspiring against you,” he says, as though it was the easiest solution in the world. Maybe to him it is.

“Dubrov was leading the negotiations with the Fjerdans. I needed him.”

“The cost outweighed the benefits.”

Alina looks up slowly, and is not surprised to see that he is already staring at her. The fingers that only moments ago were tenderly brushing a mare are now curled tightly into his palm.

“That wasn’t your decision to make. You may have set us back years.”

Aleksander gives his horse one last pet, before stepping close to her. Alina doesn’t move, doesn’t change her body posture as he trails his fingers down from her shoulder to the crook of her elbow. She wonders, with a snort, if he thinks he can calm her just as easily as he can his mare.

“The cost,” he repeats, his voice cold even as his fingers brush her palm (over the scar—he has forgotten lullabies, names, crimes, murders, but he has _never forgotten that scar_ ), “outweighed the benefits.”

Her eyes drift to meet his, “This isn’t your kingdom to run. It’s not your council to murder.”

He shifts, his body towering over hers as he braces an arm above her head (this man, she knows. She knows him far better than she knows the man who sings to his horses and gets hay in his hair), “I’m aware of what is and isn’t mine, Alina.”

His other hand moves from her palm to her hip. His fingers trail like ghosts over the crest of it, until his thumb digs into the bone that can be felt underneath her own (navy) _kefta._

_What makes a monster?_

“Or,” he whispers against her throat as he cranes his neck low, as his lips brush against her pulse with every word leaving his tongue, “Are you upset for another reason?”

Alina swallows, then regrets it, as she feels his small smirk form against her skin, “I’m pretty sure it’s the murdered councilors.”

He kisses her jaw, then behind her ear. She feels the vibrations of his heart against her chest as he presses closer to her, the tempo like the notes of a song without words. 

She lets him kiss her on the mouth, unhurried and deep as the hand on her hip moves to her inner thigh. He takes his time, movements slow. After a moment, she allows a hand to rest on his back, between his shoulder blades. It’s a concession she doesn’t want to make. 

He pulls away, just enough to whisper, “You can’t leave me, Alina. Even if it would stop Fjerda.”

Alina closes her eyes. Thinks about the intelligence reports she’s received, the rumors she’s heard about a coup. About how she ignored those reports and rumors because Dubrov had Fjerdans attending negotiations for the first time in a century. And then she thinks about a pyre, and iron around her wrists. She remembers what it felt like, to have snow melt into her knees and his heavy, desperate arms around her stomach.

…He must think about a pyre, too, because his next kiss is softer.

_What makes a monster?_

“You can’t leave me,” he whispers again, fingers going for the fastens on her cloak-

She pushes him away. And her next words are heavy with promise, “No more executions without my consent, or I will.”

Aleksander’s face is a calm mask, but his grip tightens where it holds her.

_The same thing that stops one._

Finally, he nods. And she lets him kiss her once more.


	2. jealous kiss

Alina barely managed to stifle a yawn, but it wasn’t quick enough to spare her the eyeroll from Zoya across the desk.

“Get it together, _Sun Summoner,”_ she said through a yawn she didn’t bother to try and conceal, “We have four more training reports to look through.”

“Actually,” came a playful voice from the entrance to the Squaller’s office, and both Alina and Zoya turned to see Nikolai leaning against the frame of her door. He was making a show of inspecting his nails. Which was impossible, seeing as they were underneath gloves, “I’ve decided I would like attention this evening.”

Zoya snorted, sending him an acidic look from underneath an impeccably shaped brow, “How out of character for you.”

“I know. I’m the very portrait of self-sacrificing husband, though even they must take evenings off every once in a while,” he stepped into the room, standing directly behind Alina’s chair, “Time for bed _.”_

Alina rolled her shoulders to loosen stiff muscles, “Let me finish up these last reports-”

He pressed a lingering kiss to the side of her neck. A chill went down her back, and he smiled against her skin.

“Time for bed,” he pressed a far more chaste kiss to her cheek, “Paperwork, I find, doesn’t spoil overnight.”


	3. birthday

Alina had long ago resolved herself to the fact that her daughter was going to grow up _spoiled._ It was inevitable with royals. And she highly suspected that they didn’t know how to be anything else. 

But resolve and experience are two different things.

“What did he do now,” she asks, toneless and dead and it’s a question she has already repeated at least a dozen times as the palace prepares.

Misha looks distinctly uncomfortable as the pair of them hide in a storage room within the servants’ quarters (it’s just their place, one they’ve had for a while. And it’s strategically used for when the two commoners who’ve found themselves royals need to commiserate over the extravagances of court), “Cats.”

“Cats.”

“Two of them. Circus cats. They can dance.”

The Queen of Ravka pinches the bridge of her nose, “…why.”

The Prince of Ravka’s nose wrinkles in distaste, “He has too much money.”

“He’s always had too much money.”

Misha nods gravely.

There’s a sharp rap on the door, and both Queen and Prince look at each other in a panic, as though they were murderers found hiding a body and not family hiding from a party planning.

“Are you two finished in there?” Comes the voice of the King of Ravka himself from the other side of the door, “Because there’s still much to do before the birthday feast, and I’m afraid these imported cakes aren’t going to taste-test themselves-”

Misha’s eyes brighten.

Alina glares at him in warning as Misha’s hand rests on the door’s latch, “Don’t fall for it.”

“-and the longer I’m unsupervised, the more orchestras I’m hiring.”

The Queen sighs, looking at Misha, then the latch, and her shoulders fall in defeat, “Do it. The count was already up to four.”

Misha undoes the latch, the door swings open, and Nikolai stands in finely tailored military dress with a baby slinged across his chest in place of a sash. He grins charmingly and beautifully as his family exits from their makeshift bunker.

Alina looks at their soon-to-be one year old daughter. Ana is asleep, and drooling peacefully on her husband’s expensive jacket. Alina smirks, “…no fair bringing the baby.”

Nikolai’s polished smile morphs, just a little, into a mischievous grin as he kisses Alina’s forehead, “I needed the insurance.”

“What did you do now.”

“The dancing cats have been upgraded to bears-”

” _Nikolai_.”

“-and Misha, I do believe the honeyed cakes are calling our names right about now,” Nikolai interjects, landing a hand on the prince’s shoulder and steering him towards the kitchen. Misha goes without much coercion. Traitor.

Alina watches the retreating figures of her husband, son, and daughter and both smiles and rolls her eyes.

Yes, her daughter is going to grow up spoiled.


End file.
